Der Versteckt, I Combattenti, Et Les Morts
by Ashe Dupre
Summary: In 1920, convict Ludwig Beilschmidt broke his parole and disappeared into the streets of Chicago. What followed was a tale of intertwined fates and stories that no one could have predicted. No longer for NaNoWriMo, just a story.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1:

Look Down

Chicago, 1920

It was monotonous. _That_ he could easily admit. Day after day, stuck in the same routine, in the same horrible conditions. A prison guard walked past him and the others, who immediately averted their eyes.

_ Look down_.

It was their silent code, here in the Cook County jail. You don't look at the jailers. Just keep looking down. Eye contact was confrontational. Asking for a fight. It was a challenge, and was usually followed by a beating. And no one knew this as well as Ludwig Beilschmidt. Nineteen years, nearly twenty, in this place. He knew how to act, what to do. He knew everyone's story.

_ Look down._

Raivis, the little Latvian who prayed to God every day to go home, to be free. The others pitied him. His idealism wasn't going to last long, as sad as that was.

_ Look down._

Eduard, who had simply lost hope a few years ago. He had a long sentence ahead of him, and he viewed it with about as much optimism as a rat drowning in vinegar- none at all, with the only thing to look forward to being a bitter taste left before the end.

_ Look down._

On the other hand, there was Toris, a Lithuanian kid barely into his twenties, who seemed to have the optimism for both of them. He swore up and down that as soon as he got out he would find his girl. He truly believed that she would wait for him. With five years done and fifteen to go, everyone told him, encouraged him, to forget her. She had probably forgotten him.

_ Look down._

Then there was Desislav and Dmitri, birds of a feather, both protesting their innocence any chance they got. They both claimed to not have done what they were accused of, that they shouldn't be here. It would be tiring, but at least they still had some spirit in them, which is more than many could say.

_ Look down._

Vladmir was full of doom, but in all fairness he had the right to some pessimism; looking ahead at twenty more years could do that. He always stated how they were all "standing in their graves". And it was true, to a point. Most of them would die in here; the only real question was whether it would be injury, illness, or simply wasting away, alone, starving, and forgotten.

_ Look down._

And lastly Nikolai, whom Ludwig could only remember hearing say one thing in all the time he had known him:

"Once I'm out of here, you won't see me anywhere near here, not for all the money in the world."

And Ludwig could agree with him on that.

* * *

><p>Police Inspector Alfred F. Jones looked around at the prisoners. Filthy, despondent, sullen; the norm. He noticed a fight breaking out, quickly stopped by an older man, who physically lifted one of the fighters off of the ground. This was no mean feat- the man lifted was easily upwards of two-hundred pounds, height and muscle considered.<p>

Jones called to a nearby warden, "Bring me prisoner two-four-six-oh-one."

The warden complied, and came back with the requested man.

Two-four-six-oh-one was a man that had seen better times, that much was obvious. If the years in prison, the hardships of life, all of it, was stripped away, he would be a tall man, with clear, blue eyes. His hair may have been blond, but the grime made it difficult to tell.

He stood for a moment, not looking at the warden or the Inspector.

"Two-four-six-oh-one."

At Jones's voice, the man glanced up, and the Inspector could see the man's anger, stil burning after twenty years in what could so accurately pass as hell that the devil himself wouldn't tell the difference.

"You are now on parole. Do you know what that means?"

The man smiled grimly. "Yes. It means I'm free."

Jones frowned. "No. Now, follow this itinerary, to the letter. If you fail to comply, you will be sent back here. Similarly, if you commit a crime again, you will be back. Do you understand?"

"Yes," the man said. He looked down at the papers, frowning. "What is this?" He pointed to the writing near the bottom of his parole papers.

"It warns others that you are a dangerous man."

"All I did was steal a bit of food, a mouthful at most!" the man exclaimed, anger showing in his eyes. "My sister's child was dying, we were all dying! We were starving-"

"And you'll starve again, unless you learn the meaning of the _law_," Jones interrupted sternly.

Two-four-six-oh-one glared at him. "I know the meaning of these nineteen years in prison, a slave of your beloved law."

"Five years for your crime, all the rest was because you attempted to flee," Jones stated, temper rising. "Now, two-four-six-oh-one-"

"My _name_ is Ludwig Beilschmidt," the man, Beilschmidt, said through gritted teeth.

_ German,_ thought the Inspector. "And I'm _Inspector_ Jones. Don't forget my name. Because if you step out of line even one more time, I'll be there, ready to drag your sorry ass _right back here._" Jones punctuated each of see last words with a step closer, and a not-so-light poke to the other man's chest. "Now get out of here. Leave!" As Ludwig was escorted to the exit, Jones called over his shoulder, just loud enough for Beilschmidt to hear, "Two-four-six-oh-one."

* * *

><p><strong><span>AN: And so ends the first chapter of my new story! This is my story for NaNoWriMo, _Der Versteckt, I Combattenti, Et Les Morts_. I'm using the Young Writers version, 30,000 words, because school would very likely keep me from 50,000. And, you know, life. Reviews would be great- what do you think?**

**Cheers!**

**~Ashe :0)**


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

On Parole, and The Bishop

* * *

><p>Chicago, 1920<p>

Freedom was an odd thing. Ludwig Beilschmidt, a convict of nineteen years, was a free man now. And he had no idea what to do.

What does a person do, with no idea of where to go, or how to get there?

He could try to find his sister, Monika, again. No. Who knew where she was by this point. Her son, his nephew- he would be a grown man now. Little Franz. He would be twenty three.

If he even still lived.

Ludwig shook his head. It didn't matter. He was a freed man, he had served his time! He could finally look up to the sun, feel the wind on his face. The air felt so clear.

He could take on anything.

* * *

><p>He had been wrong.<p>

He had thought that he could come out into the world, find a job, make a new life.

But he had been wrong.

No one was hiring. And anyone who was wasn't hiring ex-convicts on parole. He learned that lesson very quickly, trying to find work in the city his first week out.

* * *

><p><em>"Any work here?" <em>

_The foreman looked at the newcomer. He looked strong and healthy enough. He looked down to see a paper crumpled in the man's hand. "What's that, there?"_

_The man looked down at his hand, as if he had forgotten that the paper was there. "It's...it my itinerary." He handed the paper to the now frowning foreman. _

_He looked it over, shaking his head and frowning. "Sorry, no work for you and _your _kind here. This is a decent workplace."_

* * *

><p>Ludwig found many similar answers at every other place he looked. No one wanted to hire a man who had been sent to prison for theft.<p>

He had thought that with his freedom he could start a new life, a new page. But he knew better now.

Freedom was a lie. It didn't exist, not for people like him. His _itinerary_ was a constant reminder of this. He had to report, like a _dog_. Report on his doings to self-righteous officials that looked down on him, looked down on him for trying to feed his family.

No, his freedom was paranoia. Fear that if he stepped out of line he would be back, back in that hell.

There was anger too. Anger that people kept throwing his past in his face, that no one would just let him be. That he wasn't allowed to move on. Didn't he deserve a chance to try again?

Didn't he?

* * *

><p>Ludwig needed a place to stay. The nights were getting colder. Buying a home, or even renting, was out of the question- he was an ex-convict with no money.<p>

He had been kicked out of every place he had tried to even warm up. Being German, and still having his accent, wasn't helping him either. The Great War had only ended two years ago, and many were still angry at his country and his people.

He shook himself out of his oughts, to look for a place to stay for the night. Finally, he found a bench outside of a church.

_This may be promising._

Setting down his things, though he really didn't have much, he settled onto the bench, preparing for a long, cold, uncomfortable night.

"Sir?" Ludwig sat up quickly, startled and disappointed.

_Here it comes. The forceful request to "move along". Being kicked out, turned away again._

"Please, come inside. It's very cold out here." He looked up at the owner of the voice in shock. No one had offered to let him stay, in the four months of freedom he had had.

Said owner of the voice was a priest from the looks of it, rather young as well. He sounded Italian, not that it mattered.

"Please, come inside. The church is plenty warm," the priest said again, reaching out a hand. Ludwig stared at it for a moment, wondering what sort of being this man was, to offer his hand to a person like himself. Then, still hesitant, he took it, and followed the man inside.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: So, here it is. Chapter two. Tell me how you like it? Hopefully we'll be able to meet more people in a few chapters. Also, uh, would you like a cast list? Some people it may or may not be clear on who they are. Lastly, one, I am basing this off of the musical/the movie. More the movie, simply because it's readily available for me to watch repeatedly. And two, I own nothing, except for the mad idea to make a Hetalia Les Mis, in America in the 20's to the 30's. **

**Cheers!**

**~Ashe :0)**


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